What's in a name?
by tasha.vick
Summary: As it turns out, quite a lot. SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3, especially HLV. This is johnlock and parentlock. Second chapter now up! :) Lots of fluff, family, emotion and later...danger.
1. Chapter 1

**Season 3 spoilers, guys, don't read further if you haven't seen any of the new episodes, especially His Last Vow.**

* * *

Setting down his newborn baby girl, John was glad that she'd finally fallen asleep. He still had several boxes to unpack and before the night was out, he just knew he would be a worn-out wreck. However, if it made their new home more comfortable and habitable, then so be it. As he walked downstairs, baby-monitor in hand, he sighed and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on_. ''Tea makes everything better''_. Except it doesn't, does it?

It had been two months after the baby was born that John realized something was wrong with Mary. And then he realized what it was, and he thought himself rather stupid in not realizing it sooner. She was...bored. Ah, the irony. He usually knew what to do with ''bored''. Throw a case at it or distract it with a story from his past. But, oh no, this wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock whom he had not seen since he became the proverbial East Wind, erradicating once more the existance of one James Moriarty. No, this was a different story altogether. How do you entertain and amuse an ex assassin? The answer is, you don't unless you want a few lives on your conscience.

He caught himself looking at her with wonder, and not the kind that made him fall in love with her, but the kind that made him regret throwing that flash drive into the fire. And one morning, as clear as day, he knew what he had to do. He snuck out of bed, threw a few items of clothing in an overnight bag and grabbed his still sleeping daughter from her crib. The hastily written note was left on Mary's night stand, explaining that he would be sending for the rest of his things in the morning and she had better not come looking for them. And somehow, the thing that made it all worse was the subconscious knowledge that she wouldn't. That, that too, would bore her. Well, she now had the freedom to do whatever she bloody well liked. Cheek nestled against the baby's soft dark curls, he pondered his decision once more and came to the conclusion that it was the right one. The cab sped off and John Watson never once looked back on his now ex-home and the life he left behind. Wasn't much of a life anyway.

* * *

The sharp sound of a knock on his door woke him up. John realized he'd fallen asleep on a pile of books he'd previosuly unpacked and planned to stack on the shelves of his study. He wondered who it could be so late, or rather early in the day, and he approched the door with caution. It does good to be cautious, _''Especially when the mother of your child knows how to wield more kinds of weapons than you, you sorry excuse for a military doctor'', _he thought to himself.

Preparing himself for a gust of cold wind and the howl of rain he could hear quite clearly tapping away at the window sill, he yanked the heavy door open.

''Oh my God.''

There, in front of him stood the man he hadn't seen in months, the man whom, he had to admit, he missed terribly. His best friend. Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

''Do I just remain here for the rest of eternity or may I come in, John?''

John's smile widened,and he could almost feel his own eyes sparkle at the sight of the one person who never ceased to amaze him.

''How did you find me? Was it Mycroft?''

''Oh, do give me a little more credit, I don't go to my brother every time I need information about someone or something.''

''So...what then?''

''Harry.''

''Ah. Yes, well, get in, get in, you must be freezing. Tea?''

''Yes, thank you.''

He watched his friend take off his drenched trademark coat and place it on a chair near the fire to dry off. He tousled his wet curls and John smiled, amazed at how such a simple act could be so enticing when performed by Sherlock. His heart gained a bit of speed as he quickly turned away his gaze knowing he shouldn't be having these thoughts.

He knew that he'd hurt Sherlock, irrevokably, at that. He'd chosen Mary, yes, but he did so not even looking at who or rather what she was...that had surprised and wounded Sherlock,even though he would never show it. He never expressed any such notion clearly, but John knew it. Knew Sherlock. And a machine he certainly wasn't.

The airport and the cold kind of goodbye he sent him off with. Jesus,not even a hug? How could he have been that stupid?! It was clear Sherlock was saying goodbye forever. And he couldn't bring himself to do this one thing the man was so clearly craving?! A touch, warmth, physically expressed gratitude, if not the love Sherlock believed belonged to Mary. John believed it did, too. How wrong he was. Now he doesn't know which end is which.

Digging himself out a mist of confusing thoughts, he put two muggs in front of him and poured the boiling water over the tea bags, making sure that Sherlock's was done just the way he liked it. Little things, and all that. May as well start apologizing now.

When he walked back into the sitting room, he saw the tall man had already taken up his usual thinking pose and was most likely wandering through the vestiges of his mind palace. He decided not to intrude. Sipping his tea calmly, he waited for Sherlock to come out of his musings.

When he inevitably did, it was to ask one question.

''Why?''

John knew what he meant. Why leave Mary, after all the soul-searching he did to forgive her? The answer was painfully obious to John. The problem was voicing it. Tears gathered in the corners of his indigo-blue eyes and he swallowed around a lump lodged firmly in his throat. After a while, he took a deep breath.

''The baby. Our daughter. Well, MY daughter. She doesn't love her. Never cared for her, since the very first moment she laid eyes on her. You taught me to deduce people, Sherlock. And that's the first time I did it properly. She would roll her eyes ever so slightly at the sight of the baby every time she looked at her. She refused to breast-feed and wouldn't look at her for hours. I didn't mind at first,and just enjoyed I had her all to myself, I thought Mary would come round. But no. It wasn't post-natal depression. It was more. And I couldn't allow for the current simple dislike for the baby turn into pure hatred. I didn't know what else there was in that odd head of hers, and frankly, with my child to look after, I didn't particularly care to know. The baby is my number one priority now.''

Sherlock's eyes did that thing where you just knew his mind was working at an incredible speed, boring into John's very soul. It reminded the doctor of the first time they met. The moment his life was changed, uprooted, never to be the same again. Inwardly, a great kind of warmth seized him and he felt happy in knowing that the two most important peoplein his life were under the same roof as him. Not Sherlock and Mary anymore, but Sherlock and his baby.

A soft cooing sound woke him from his reverie and he looked around for the baby monitor.

''I suppose that's my god-daughter?''

John smiled and shook his head fondly at the fact that Sherlock knew John had mentally chosen precisely him to be the godfather of his only child.

''Yes. Would you like to meet her? Now that she's up an rested she'll be in much better spirits.''

Sherlock's lips quirked upwards slightly, and a pink color rose in his cheeks all the way to his prominent cheekbones.

''I would like nothing more, John.''

They entered the room slowly, so as not to frighten the child, as she was easily startled when she was groggy. At five months old, she was a beautiful baby, with dark hair and cerulean blue eyes just begging for the knowledge fo the world to be poured into them. John rejoiced at the thought, knowing Sherlock would be the best tutor in the world, if the two took a liking to each other.

As she rose to her little feet and grabbed the edge of her cot tightly, the tiny little creature ignored her father's sillouhette and her keen eyes inspected the newcomer. Sherlock, on his end, was slightly at a loss for what to do, so he decided on letting her lead the way. John simply hung back and watched.

She giggled sleepily and flung her hands outwards, towards the tall, dark-haired man and almost lost her footing. But before John was able to react, Sherlock was there to catch her, cradling her safely in his arms. She giggled loudly now, looking up at the fact of her rescuer. And as Sherlock looked back, John's jaw dropped ever so slightly. There. It. Was. The look in his eyes. The one look he expected, desired more than anything to see on Mary's face, directed at their child. But instead he found it in Sherlock. Pure and unadulterated adoration.

* * *

''Well, I guess she likes you.''

Sherlock, still engaged in a silent conversation with the child, didn't respond and John smiled even wider.

''You want to know her name?''

This made Sherlock look up and realize he never thought to ask. Too trivial for him, the naming of a baby. But he found himself curious nonetheless.

''It's not Sherlock is it?''

They both giggled at the memory.

''No, much as it as it has a ring to it, I couldn't do that to her. But, you are close.''

''What do you mean?''

''Well, you didn't give me much to work with and I really wanted to...I don't know...do something, something I could control, something you might be proud of when you heard how it came to be. So, without further ado, let me present to you, my daughter...Willa Amy Watson.''

John let the name sink in and after a few seconds realization dawned on the consulting detective.

''You mean...''

''Yes...''

''**William** Sherlock Scott Holmes?''

''Yes, I managed to find something that fit. She was named after you, Sherlock. And I wouldn't have it any other way.''


	2. Chapter 2

''_I always wondered if you asked yourself for whom those particular bells tolled. Who did the heavens weep gently for when it poured buckets? The night you disappeared, I mean. Dawn came as always, but that one time, as if it was reluctant to show itself to me. And I would have prefered it hadn't. It was too late for another day for me. I was broken beyond repair. Your ''death'' did that to me, Sherlock. _

_You are the sorrow of my days, you bloody bastard. And the fact that I now realize that Mary once being their hapiness meant less to me than the devastation you brought to me…Maybe , no not maybe, but definitely, this is the best move I could have possibly made. I am lost to her. Out of necessity of catching yet another dangerous villain , I am invisible to you. My daughter is enough. She will have to be. Because there will never be another…another you. Never again another black, lethal butterfly to come in and sweep me off my ricketty, PTSD feet and turn my world upside down. ''_

Sherlock put back the letter he'd found in one of the boks he was helping John stack. It was written farily recently, since his return and immediately after John had left Mary.

He had no idea what to make of it. Only that he now realized that his life's mission would always be to keep John Watson safe(not that since he met him it was ever anything else). He looked around and once he was sure John was still in the kitchen preparing the tea, he lowered his head in his hands and took a deep, calming breath.

* * *

It had been four months since his escape from his life in London, and three months and three weeks since he found his best friend on his doorstep. Sherlock had explained that the chase for Moriarty had begun, but that he wasn't needed until Mycroft called for him, and that it was recommended to him he leave London for a while. It was, as Sherlock explained, part of his ''sentence'' for killing Magnussen. The very mention of the man's name made John's stomach turn. He tried to delete the image of the detective putting a bulet in the lizard's head, but he found he lacked the will power to do it properly. It was a solid reminder, one of many, of how devoted Sherlock was to him and the connection they had begun forging the very instant they first met.

Now, Sherlock had become a permanent fixture in his life, just as he once installed himself in Sherlock's 221b flat. But, much like 221b, the small Sussex cottage once owned by a distant relative and that John had inherited had soon become a cozy home for the odd, slightly disfunctional family. _Family?_ Where did that come from, John asked himself as he thought the word, but found that he rather didn't care. His daughter was happy, taken care of by her father and the one other person he trusts implicitly and John was satisifed.

He realized he dreaded the moment when Sherlock would be called on to join the Moriarty hunt. It was not fair, that man taking Sherlock away from him again! Before he had any time to rethink the sentiment that had wrapped itself around him in that moment, he heard sounds coming from Willa's bedroom. He smiled to himself as he recognized his daughter's soft giggles and the murmurs of Sherlock's deep, dark-velvet baritone.

Just when John thought he could never find a scene as amusing as that of Sherlock bottle-feeding Willa (adorable but unbelieveable still), he was shocked into silence by the sight of Sherlock sitting crosslegged in front of a much attentive Willa, her indigo eyes wide and searching.

Sherlock was reciting a poem, or so John thought. But when he started listening more carefully, what he heard surprised him more than he could say. Just before he said something about how she was too young to understand the Disney classic, and that he would rather Sherlock didn't pick a villain number, he noticed Sherlock's stance. He was in full actor mode, his heart in his performance, the song (just lyrics no melody, not even Sherlock would go to those lengths as far as Disney and Jonas brothers went) obviously serving as a tool, as means to some end.

His verdigris orbs turned even sharper, and, angling his face towards the light of the full moon phyltering throught he curtains he indeed looked ethereal. Willa certainly seemed to think so,too, as she remained quiet and transfixed - a rarity at that time of day(or rather night). So, John leaned back and listened, in awe of his friend once more.

_**I admit that in the past I've been a nasty**_

_**They weren't kidding when they called me kinda strange**_

_**But you'll find that nowadays**_

_**I've mended all my ways.**_

A mischievous wink.

_**Repented, seen the light, and made a change**_

An eye roll and smirk.

_**And I fortunately know a little secret**_

_**It's a talent that I always have possessed**_

_**And dear lady, please don't laugh**_

_**I use it on behalf…**_

whispering

_**Of the miserable, the lonely, and depressed (pathetic)**_

_**Poor unfortunate souls.**_

If John thought he would burst into tears of laughter, he was wrong. He observed as though he was at a Shakespeare play, Sherlock was just that good, even when he was reciting a bloody children's song.

_**They come flocking to me crying**_

_**"Will you help us, pretty please?"**_

_**And I help them!**_

_**Yes I do!**_

This is where it seemed he had come to a crucial point, trying to coax some sort of reaction out of Willa.

_**The men up there don't like a lot of blabber**_

_**They think a girl who gossips is a bore!**_

_**Yes on land it's much preferred for ladies not to say a word**_

_**And after all dear, what is idle prattle for?**_

_**They're not all that impressed with conversation**_

_**True gentlemen avoid it when they can**_

_**But they dote and swoon and fawn**_

_**On ladies who withdrawn**_

_**It's she who holds her tongue who gets a man**_

The words seemed to have the desired effect on the child as she kept squirming in her pen, standing up firmly, reaching for Sherlock, her little face scrunched up in an effort to do something. John had trouble realizing what she wanted. But Sherlock, somehow knew what she wanted and picked her up, repeating the words, intently locking her eyes with hers, smiling encouragingly.

_**They think a girl who gossips is a bore!**_

_**Yes on land it's much preferred for ladies **__**not to say a word**_

_**And after all dear, **__**what is idle prattle for**__**?**_

_**They're not all that impressed with conversation**_

_**True gentlemen avoid it when they can**_

_**But they dote and swoon and fawn**_

_**On ladies who withdrawn**_

_**It's she who holds her tongue who gets a man**_

Suddenly, John thought he would faint as his daughter looked away from Sherlock and straight at him. Her tiny hands turned to him and she frowned deeply before throwing a shrill scream of a single, first word out to him.

''Daddy!''

John was with her in an instant and in his arms, and cooed into her hair as he watched Sherlock grinning wickedly.

It was then that John knew what the detective was doing. He laughed heartily.

''Sherlock, did you just reverse psych my daughter into uttering her first word?''

''Yes. ''

''You know, I should be angry, I could have missed it, you big prat!''

It was said fondly but with an underlining accusatory note.

''Not a chance, I heard your footsteps, and only then did I start reciting. I knew you wouldn't interrupt. Besides, Willa is way too smart, and she knew who she wanted to talk to first. She knew you were there all along.''

''Right…well…thank you. I'm sure she'd have gotten there eventually, but, nonetheless. As always, you amaze me.''

''Well, I couldn't risk missing out on it, you never know when Mycroft…'

''Can we not talk about it before dinner? I've got the risotto almost ready, would you mind getting her ready for bed?''

Sherlock let it go and nodded, taking a pliant Willa from her father's arms.

As John descended the stairs, and Sherlock put her down and went to the en-suite bathroom to look for her diaper bag, he missed the child's eyes following him across the room and the failed to hear the utterance which left her lips in a sleepy yawn, laced with unmistakable adoration:

''_**Papa.''**_

* * *

Sherlock couldn't stop straing at Willa's plumps, sleeping face. John was at the door, about to call him to come down for dinner, but stopped himself, this time making sure he wasn't seen interrupting on what was clearly a moment Sherlock wouldn't want him to have witnessed.

The sight before him was breath-taking. His child lay peacefully asleep, safely ensconced in the tall man's arms, oblivious to the world spinning around her, unaware of the hold she had over both Joh and Sherlock's souls.

* * *

Sherlock continued his observation of the tiny being in his hold. He took in the sight of the rebelious raven locks, thick and possibly highly untameable in the future. Her rosy cheeks were perfectly spherical and her chubby little fingers gripped the front of Sherlock's shirt as if her life depended on it. She may as well have been grasping at his heart, thought the detective, quickly reprimanding himself for giving into such a vast amount of sentiment.

Just as he put Willa back in her cot, two things happened. One, he caught sight of John stood in the doorway and actually flinched. How long had he been there? Did he see him go all googly-eyed for the baby? As Sherlock's mind was whirring with the onslaught of question, the second, more important occurrence snapped him out of the whirlpool of emotions. He stood up straight, alert, motioning towards the cot.

''Take her. Don't let her out of your sight.''

John's eyes widened with panic. He knew that tone of voice.

''Vatican cameos?''

He asked, his gut throbing with grim anticipation.

But instead of an affirmative, Sherlock simply took a deep breath and uttered three words which, combined with the rare look of anxiety on his face gave John the fright of his life.

''_**Claire de Lune.''**_

* * *

_**A/N: Thoughts? :)**_


End file.
